


Rest your weary soul

by SmilinStar



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: F/M, Originally Posted on Tumblr, maoshiatushug
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-25
Updated: 2014-02-25
Packaged: 2018-01-13 19:14:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,415
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1237849
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SmilinStar/pseuds/SmilinStar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If he were anyone else.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rest your weary soul

Sleep has been evading him for the past four hours. He has tossed and turned, kicked off his sheets, and pulled them back too many times to count. He has been drawn to the edge of sleep, teased with the possibility of relief, only for his eyes to snap open mere minutes later as that one single image seeps into his near unconsciousness.

Terrified brown eyes plead at him but he’s stuck, rooted, unable to move, and he feels so completely helpless, so much like his ten year old self all over again and with it a sickness settles deep in the pit of his stomach.

He wakes to laboured breathing, a racing heart and sweaty palms.

Pushing himself up and out of bed, he stumbles out of his bunk and heads straight for the kitchen. His mouth is dry and desperate for water.

The main lights are out in the small kitchenette, and it is eerily quiet except for the hum of the plane’s engines.

He pours himself a glass of cold water in the dark, his eyesight adjusting easily to the dimness the small emergency lights that line either side of the plane allow.

A soft noise then from nearby startles him enough to let the glass slip a few millimetres in his hand, but his grasp is tight enough to hold on, and not let it fall and shatter.

He moves quietly towards the seating area, his hand reaching out to touch the base of the lamp resting in the corner. The gentle lighting casts obscure shadows around him, and draws his attention to the small figure curled up on the armchair.

It is exactly who he had expected it to be.

It makes sense that she too would be battling the same demons as he.

She doesn’t look at him. Her face is turned away, staring outside through the small plane window. It is dark outside and apart from a few wisps of cloud, there’s nothing to hold the biochemist’s attention with such resolute intensity.

He drops his glass on to the marble counter, thirst forgotten.

He sits down on the coffee table in front of her, the wood creaking under his weight.

“Hey,” he says, his voice thick with unfulfilled sleep and exhaustion.

Still she says nothing.

“Simmons?”

He sighs deeply, runs a hand over his tired face and tries again, “Jemma?”

She turns then, her eyes red rimmed, and sunken, unshed tears gathering on the edges of her lower lids, perilously close to rolling over and sliding down her cheek.

She’s dressed in her pyjamas – pale pink and covered in tiny hearts, she looks years younger than she is. Something clenches in his chest at the sight, and he can’t help but reach out.

He rests a hand on her bent knee, his thumb rubs once against the soft fabric and firmness of her thigh.

“It wasn’t your fault.”

She scoffs. It’s harsh and wet, and he doesn’t like the sound of it one bit. It sounds a lot like self-recrimination and he knows that feeling all too well.

“You did what you could, everyone knows that.”

He winces himself, he knows empty platitudes all too well, he’s been on the receiving end of them far too often to recognise the clichéd words that are supposed to soothe but do nothing but ignite. It doesn’t matter that he  _means_  them, and he desperately wants her to believe them for the truth that they are.

She shakes her head and looks him straight in the eyes, “It wasn’t enough.”

The tears spill over now, and he watches them slide down her pale cheek.

“I keep seeing their faces,” she whispers.

“I keep seeing yours,” he wants to say but doesn’t. Instead, he reaches forwards, and instinctively wipes away her tears with his thumb.

Her skin is alarmingly cold.

He gets up then, and the abruptness of his movements jolt her and she sits up a little straighter watching as he walks away. He misses the look of confusion on her face and the brief flicker of hurt, which she tampers down and hides fast.

He returns a few moments later, his hand clutching a red fleeced blanket. His own.

She has turned back towards the window and is startled once again out of her thoughts when he drapes the blanket around her.

“You’re freezing,” he says by way of explanation, before taking the seat on the sofa beside her armchair.

She wraps the small comfort around her tighter and whispers a hoarse, “Thank you.”

He just sits there quietly beside her and after what feels like an age she speaks, “I can’t sleep.”

“Neither can I,” he wants to say, but what comes out instead is a quiet, “I know.”

She bites her lower lip, before letting out a trembling breath. Her head drops against the back of her chair and turns back in the direction of the window.

Her hand is there on the arm rest, easily within reach. He could see himself reaching out and grasping hold of that hand and squeezing it tight in reassurance. He could, if he were anyone other than Agent Grant Ward. If he were anyone else, he would have squeezed on to that chair with her, pulled her to his chest in a fierce hug, kissed her forehead and told her it would be ok.

If he were anyone else.

Instead he stays there. Just out of reach, but close enough.

She falls asleep eventually. It isn’t peaceful by any means. She’s restless and creases mar her forehead as she squeezes her eyes tight against whatever torments her, but she sleeps.

And he falls asleep watching her.

When he wakes hours later, neck stiff from his awkward position, and arm numb from hanging it over the armrest, the first thing he notices is that he’s alone. The second is that he is warm, covered entirely in his own red blanket.

He barely has time to sit up to stand, before Skye comes chattering into the room, May behind her. She starts at the sight of him, “Well that looks comfortable,” she says with an amused smile.

May says nothing, simply raises an eyebrow at him.

He doesn’t satisfy either of them with a response and with his blanket in hand he makes his way back to his bunk, in desperate need of a shower. Maybe the heat of the water will clear his clogged up mind and let him re-focus his thoughts on anything but her.

In his rush, he bumps into none other than Simmons. Of course, he wants to laugh. Of course it would be her. His arm, of its own volition reaches out and lands on her small shoulder to steady her as she bounces back from the collision.

She looks up at him, “Oh sorry, I uh wasn’t looking where I was going.”

“It’s fine.”

She steps back from him, and his hand is left dangling awkwardly mid air. He quickly retracts it, clenching it tight into a fist.

“I was just going to have a shower-

“Oh good, yes well, uh carry on,” she says, visibly wincing with her words, cheeks turning a rather lovely shade of pink. “I was just heading to breakfast.”

He doesn’t say anything, a small unbidden smile playing on his lips.

“Okay, well good,” she says again, not meeting his eyes, before turning on her feet and walking away.

He watches her a moment, before leaving.

He only moves a few steps, when he hears her call out,

“Agent Ward?”

He turns around, not sure what he’s expecting. Whatever it had been, it most definitely wasn’t an armful of Jemma Simmons flying into him. She has her arms wrapped tight around his torso, and her head leaning heavy against his chest.

She’s soft and warm, and smells of oranges and something else earthy he can’t name.

She leans back to look up at him, an embarrassed but affectionate smile on her lips.

He ignores the little flip in his chest.

“Thank you,” she says.

If he were anyone else, he would have hugged her back, ran his fingers through her hair and kissed her on the forehead.

If he were anyone else.

Instead, he lets her go and says nothing.

She only smiles wider, “I’ll save you some pancakes.”

And with that she’s gone.

Unbeknownst to either of them, she takes just another little piece of him with her as she goes.

 

 


End file.
